


Brothers In Arms to the End

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Prompt: Aslan and Frings broship</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers In Arms to the End

There’s no sunlight. No stars. No moon. No clouds. Nothing but an empty purple expanse that has long since taken over the breathable air. It chokes any who come into contact with it, but there are worse things that happen after long exposure.

They have been exposed dozens of times, but they have yet to show symptoms.

So they’re sent more and more, and come back more and more.

They are naturals.

"Behind you!"

"No, behind  _you_!”

"I’ve got this one - you worry about yours!"

"Are we still doing that kill count thing?"

"Of course."

"Ugh I stopped counting ages ago."

One has emerald hair tied back in a small tail on the back of his head, but the rest is spiked into a mohawk on the top. His clothing is a mish-mash of torn up jeans, black (stained) t-shirt, and sleeveless jacket with too many holes and repairs to really be an original piece of clothing anymore. His boots are drenched in viscera and mud, and he has no actual plans to remove any of it. He’ll just take a new pair from a new body.

They have one thing in common: the thick fabric wrapped around their noses and mouths.

The other has light hair, pale, that is sweat slicked and shorter than the other’s. His somewhat darker skin has darkened further despite the lack of sun, and his golden eyes peer out from behind a set of goggles. He carries a gun on either hip, and another across his back, but it’s the sword in his hands that makes him dangerous. His lips curl in a mocking smile as they turn as one towards new sounds of shuffling, groaning, and moaning.

"First one to one hundred gets drinks for free," the green haired one suggests.

"You’re on."

The cries of the dead, the stench of rotting flesh, the claws that dig at any piece of living human - it’s all become par for the course, and Sync has long ago accepted this as his calling. He decapitates one with a swipe of a short dagger in his hand, while his foot, bearing another knife in the toe, tears through the hip of another.

Behind him Aslan rips the jaw off, and then the head, of one that gets too close, and takes out two more with a simple swing of his sword. The energy between them is a constant ebb and flow, tug and push, and they share a private grin as they continue their mission.

It takes two hours before they’ve finished this one area of a city once called Grand Chokmah, another before they find a place to rest. Sync slumps against the side of a building and glances Aslan over once to check for bites. He knows Aslan is doing the same.

"Checking out my ass, huh?" Sync asks after a swig of water. He tosses the canteen to Aslan.

"That ugly thing? No way," Aslan responds. He drinks greedily, thinks better of it, and caps the half empty container.

"So how much further do we have to go?" Sync inquires, letting his eyes close briefly as he leans on the building. "Did His friggin’ Majesty say?"

"We need to retake the district."

"Why? They repopulate faster than rappigs."

"Because people need shelter."

This is not an old argument. Nor is it all that new. It just… is. It’s a discussion they have with varying results of compromise.

"By the way, one hundred and one," Aslan reports. Sync swears.

"No way. No friggin’ way."

"You owe me drinks."

"Double or nothing?" Sync asks hopefully.

"Promise at least one on you and I’ll shake."

Sync sighs but offers his hand. Aslan grips it and hauls him to his feet. With a pump of their arms they shake. It turns into a complicated hand shake thing that even they don’t have a name for, and they laugh briefly at each other.

"If we find a landship, I call shotgun," Sync said.

"Is that because you suck at driving?"

"No, it’s because I know you have a tendency to not crash."

"Same thing."

Sync rolls his eyes and the shotgun off his back. He grips the weapon and walks forward with Aslan. Ahead of them, the street stretches, utterly empty aside from dust and dirt and miasma. Sync can almost smell it through his mask, and wonders how long it’ll be before he and Aslan come down with the fever. It has to be soon.

"Alright, more coming," Aslan says, and Sync forces himself to focus.

After all, he couldn’t afford two rounds of drinks. He had to win this for the sake of the booze - he’d seen Aslan drink.

Sync pumped the shotgun. Aslan swung the sword, loosening his arm again.

"Ready?"

"Always."

"Let’s go."


End file.
